Killing was easy.

Logan had often thought about that--something new in his experience, unlimited time to sit around and think, whether he wanted to or not. Killing made things simple, and Logan knew intimately that it tended to solve problems in the quickest and most satisfactory matter. Done correctly, it tied up its own loose ends and when the police found a dead mutant, they tended to brush it into their own private version of the x-files and leave it at that.

One of the things that annoyed him was the fact that Xavier just didn't see it that way. Even the very-justifiable homicide or three.

He'd gotten the lecture on ethics twenty-two weeks before, and that had to be the day that Rogue had almost drowned, because his mood wouldn't have been that bad otherwise--funny, he couldn't remember specific days or specific months when he had changed, but he remembered the changes and the triggers, and that was the last time he'd killed someone in relatively cold blood. Granted, they'd been trying to kill him first. Granted, he'd been left with few options--but he'd had options, and Xavier at his ancient wooden desk had strictly reminded him of those options, no matter how far-fetched, unrealistic, and really undeniably bad they had been.

X-Men didn't kill for the hell of it. Period. Logan sat in the med lab while Rogue recovered from frostbite and hypothermia and admitted, at least to himself, that he could have gotten out of that situation without leaving the man looking like a leftover from a sausage factory. But God, it had felt good, and that began to disturb him, and having those long hours with nothing to do and no where he could go, he had unprecedented amounts of time to think over his behavior without distraction.

It was illuminating, to say the least.

Which was fucked up. Thinking led places he didn't want to go, and because of that long, unprecedented length of time to sit down and think, his request to Xavier that night had been a little more enthusiastic and he'd left wanting to kill again and this time wanting to draw it out a little farther and watch the face of the man he killed a little longer and remind a few people that he was not a domesticated pet of some sort, whose only real duty was to assure Rogue wasn't a danger to herself or others.

Which he was, though, and that came during some more time thinking, and he hated that. Might as well have a fucking collar.

Which had meant one of his longer sessions in the Danger Room and a night in New York, coming home at dawn and almost falling over Rogue when he found her on the porch, smoking a cigar and watching him with unreadable eyes. Followed him back upstairs and waited while he took a shower to get the smell of other women off--and how many had there been, anyway?--and then she'd asked in a muted voice, one of the few times in memory, to give her a training session in the Danger Room.

"Stop thinking."

Shit, he was even talking to himself now.

It felt good to be away from the mansion and a thousand or so acres of land that seemed claustrophobically small and confining. So good that he dismissed the thinking business for later and concentrated on deciding exactly where they were going to go. Though he was getting a vague idea that appealed to him, if only because it seemed so utterly cliched, and because cliches became cliches for a reason, because they tended to work.

Like murder, it was easy.

Dawn was breaking the black into pearl grey to Logan's right and he took note of the clouds hanging thickly overhead with a quick glance. The window was already rolled down, so only a breath confirmed it.

Rain today. They'd been out of New York for five hours.

Rogue still slept, and when he looked at her, it was easy to forget how life had changed her. The hard lines around her mouth had softened and he could see that the auburn was growing out again--every time she dyed it, she left that white streak, and that had to mean something. Or maybe he just wanted it to mean something, because fuck, he needed a place to start building. Starting from zero wasn't the way he wanted to play this.

"Logan," she murmured, and he kept her in peripheral vision as the first drops of rain fell down. A smile turned up one corner of her mouth, and he remembered waking up one night months before and finding her sitting on his bed, a very safe three feet away, staring at him. She never said anything and neither had he, never even asked how she got the lock on the door open, but he'd never locked it again. She'd fallen asleep stretched out beside him, the marks of tears drying on her cheeks, and he'd covered her with his blanket and caught himself stroking the bared skin of her upper back before he remembered and pulled away.

Why then, why that night, why didn't he lock his door anymore and why did he let her stay. Several questions he left alone, that treaded places he hadn't felt like going.

She'd smiled like that when she slept with him--whatever drove her went silent for those few brief hours, nightmares taking a long hike out of her head, and once she'd woken and looked at him with startled eyes, Marie's eyes, uncertainty and surprise and confusion, before she was Rogue again, giving him a slow smile and a brush of a gloved hand across his body that sent him out of bed so fast he could still hear her laughter an hour later, ringing in his head when he ripped apart the Danger Room under Ororo's cool supervision.

"Sleep, baby," he answered, reaching out with one hand and sliding her hair back from her cheek. She moved into the touch with a little sign, eyes half-opening, a smile curving her lips.

"Where are we, sugar?" A soft murmur before her eyes drifted closed again and Logan removed his hand, gripping the steering wheel between his fingers.

"We'll see when we get there."

---

She hadn't slept yet, didn't even bother, and once she'd left Xavier's office, she'd redressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, grabbing the blanket off her bed and retreating to the only relative privacy she could achieve. Wrapping her arms around her knees, Jean watched the sun rise over the far horizon, smoking a cigarette while she took in the view that fifteen years had never made any less amazing, any less beautiful. Shutting her eyes, she freed her mind, letting it begin to reach slowly outward, riding the new morning with dew soaking into the blanket she'd wrapped herself in.

{What do you think you can do, Logan?}

She knew--in that way that telepaths are so lucky to have--she knew how very close he was to breaking completely. Like her, like Rogue, he was in the process of becoming something else, and she'd stared at him over the length of a conference room table so many times and wondered, as she looked between them, who would end up winning in Logan at the end--Rogue's need for some sort of stability or Logan's need for control.

He'd taken secret option number three, which was to get both at the same time and he hadn't wasted a second--when she'd left Xavier's office, they'd already been gone, and she'd only wondered in surprise what had taken him so long to act. Or if, like all of them, he was as much a prisoner to expectations as she was. If they'd locked themselves in it, and she turned her eyes briefly to the road and wondered if she could do what he was doing.

Dismissing the thoughts, she drew another breath of smoke and cleared her mind completely. The roof in the morning was her place, an open secret at best, but she was left alone, which was the part that mattered. Pulling the edges of the old quilt closer, she smiled a little as the first rays of sun warmed her face.

"Jean?"

And he could surprise her still, so much that she jerked in surprise and almost screamed, and really, how dignified was that? The awkward clatter of boots against the window sill, a soft curse when he hit his head. She didn't turn around or snuff out the cigarette, though her first instinct demanded both--Scott had never understood the attraction of smoking, had hated it, and along with everything else in her life, she'd practiced compromise and never let him see her do it. Therefore the roof at dawn since her eighteenth birthday and the first pack she had bought legally, curled up in a blanket and watching the sun rise. A morning routine, one of the many that made up her life.

"Hey," she answered hesitantly, hearing his careful steps out, almost seeing the look of wary determination on his face--Scott was Scott, didn't care for heights like she did. High places during missions were one thing, but Scott didn't do recreational risk taking. Five steps, and he sat beside her, reaching absently for her pack and taking one out, and in surprise, she handed him her lighter. He lit up like he'd been doing it for years--well, he could have been doing it for at least a year and hell if she'd know. They kept the distance in habit, as adults dealt with problems.

Expectations again. It made her wonder what would have happened if they hadn't dealt with it like adults and screamed and fought until the mansion echoed with their anger. If just once, she'd acted out of emotion instead of cool reason.

Oops, hold it. That's what had gotten her in this position in the first place.

"You okay?"

She turned her head away, focusing her eyes on the emerging sun to feel it burn into her, cleaning away excess in pure heat and pain. Why wouldn't she be okay? Ah, Logan, her lover, gone--so the first part wasn't true, general belief was far more important than fact. Once and only once, and for some reason, everyone believed that made it something. Shit, she wished it had been something--then, at least, she'd have the fun if she got the blame. At least then she'd have some decent memories to hate, something that could wake her up in regret, but even Jean thought that three years of penance was enough for one single fuck against the wall in an unmoving elevator.

"Yeah." Taking another drag, shutting her eyes--nicotine racing through her blood, the slightest swirl of her head from the buzz, and she held the smoke for a second longer as she framed a better response, blowing it out. "Xavier canceled classes today. I left notices on the students' bulletin board." Opening her eyes, she looked into the distance. "I'm going to leave this afternoon. Ororo's taking my classes this week, so there's no problem." Silence for a minute, and she struggled to fill it--being alone with him unnerved her, left her too vulnerable. "There's a medical conference down on Daytona Beach. My college mentor is going to be there, wants me to present my paper on gene therapy." A little grin, as she remembered the thrill of that phone call, the sudden change that made life more than a series of routines to be completed. "He wants access to some of our medical records and I cut a deal to bring a few with me for him to look at. Xavier finds it a wonderful opportunity to share what we've learned about human mutation."

Scott blew out the smoke in a long grey trail. "Hank going with you?"

"No, he's needed here." She stubbed out the remains of her cigarette, pulling out another, and Scott leaned over to light it. For a moment, she stared at the long fingers with blunt, perfectly cared-for nails lingering in front of her, and she remembered when those fingers would gently stroke her hair, how they felt when they touched her skin.

"These are gonna kill you, you know," he told her conversationally, and she turned a thoughtful gaze on him as he raised an eyebrow in question. Yeah, doctors knew everything would eventually kill you, given time. Jean shook her head as it lit, drawing in the smoke, breathing it out before shaking her head.

"There are a lot of ways to die. I doubt I'll live long enough for cancer to be an issue."

"You shouldn't go alone."

That startled her a little, but he was looking at the distant trees, maybe planning out the next meeting. Once upon a time, she could read his face like a book, but the cool expressionlessness he'd adopted stumped even her, and she didn't regret it.

"I'll be fine."

"You're a very visible mutants rights activist. You should take someone with you."

Jean let out a slow breath, staring down at her cigarette, then ran through a mental list of the other X-Men who'd be available on short notice.

"I'll get Bobby to come--he likes the beach--"

"No." And Scott stubbed out the cigarette on the tile, rising. "Don't bother. I'll go."

---

"Where the fuck are we?"

Logan glanced at Rogue briefly--eyes half-closed against anything resembling light, lips slightly parted, teeth clenched, her forehead lined in stress. With one hand, he hit the glove compartment open, reaching in and unerringly retrieving the aspirin, dropping it in her lap before reaching under his seat and pulling out a bottle of water.

"Take 'em. You'll feel better."

A low growl, but she fumbled the child-proof top off after three tries and dumped half the contents in her lap. Pulling off one glove shakily, she picked up three, tossing them back and taking a deep drink of water. Then a breath, took three more, and knocked the rest to the floorboard, drawing her legs up into the seat and resting her forehead on her knees.

"I feel like shit."

"Not a surprise--I've told you to drink water before you pass out and you never remember."

He felt rather than saw her resentful glare, before she looked briefly out the window.

"Where the fuck are we, anyway?"

"Not sure--I haven't been watching the signs."

"And you're telling me that you," and how she managed to may a pronoun sound like profanity was a mystery, "who probably know every fucking road in the United States, has no idea where the fuck we are. You expect me to believe that crap?"

"Don't care what you believe, darlin'."

She stewed for several minutes, and Logan lit another cigar. From the corner of his eye, he saw her reach for her jacket, pulling out her cigarettes, and he tossed her the lighter. She missed--her hand/eye was shot to hell from hangover, and she fumbled it on and lit up, taking a deep breath as he rolled down her window.

"Where are we going?"

"Not sure yet."

She was recovering fast--the lines in her forehead were clearing and the circles beneath her eyes were slowly but surely disappearing.

"Take me home."

"You've been trying to get away since you got there--don't give me any home crap. Enjoy the ride. We're gonna stop to eat in about an hour."

"I'm not hungry," she muttered, and hit the glove compartment closed with her heel, almost hard enough to leave a dent. Almost. She frowned at it, obviously expecting damage, and Logan calmly flipped the turn signal.

"Then you can sit and watch me eat." Fat drops of rain were making a slow patter over the windshield and Logan finished his cigar, tossing it into the rain and reaching for Rogue's, tossing it after, before rolling both windows closed. She didn't even fight it and Logan mulled the ominous quiet--she played with her jacket and found her glove, pulling it back on with shaky jerks of her fingers.

"You think you can make a run for it when we stop." Her head jerked around, eyes wide in surprise, and Logan couldn't help it, he laughed. Which only pissed her off--but then, everything pissed her off.

"You think I can't get away?"

"You can try." Logan dropped to a full stop, putting the car in park and turning to look at her. "Go ahead. Run."

Dark eyes stared at him, and he saw shock reflected in their depths. Shock and something else, and shit, he wished he could see what it was, define it.

"You won't find me this time," she shot, jerking her jacket over one arm.

"I won't even try." With a finger, he popped the locks, reaching over and unfastening her seatbelt. "Your shoes are in the back seat. There's a bag packed in the trunk and enough money to take you wherever you want to go."

Her hand went to the door and pressed the handle, but her eyes didn't leave his. For a moment that stretched on forever, she didn't even breathe.

"You wouldn't leave me alone."

Logan pulled the keys out of the ignition, pushing his door open. The rain wasn't coming down too hard yet--going around the front of the car, he opened her door, jerking her out and pushing her off the road, into the grass. She stumbled in shock, bare feet and the edges of her jeans becoming soaked almost instantly as she struggled for purchase on the slick grass.

"Pick a trucker or a razor or a big fucking body of water. You wanna threaten, be willing to carry it out this time. Don't do it halfway."

"Logan--"

"Now. Do it or don't. I don't give a good fuck."

"Liar," she breathed, lunging toward the road and almost losing her footing. Angrily, she swiped water-darkened hair from her eyes with soaked gloved hands. "You've never been able to leave me before. What the fuck makes you think you can do it now?"

"You aren't seventeen and you're sure as hell can take care of yourself." Logan leaned back against the hood, knocking the door shut, watching her struggle with her balance, toes brushing the gravel that edged the asphalt. "Go right ahead, sweetheart--get your ass walking until you find someplace you can try all that crap, and see just how long your pretty little throat stays in one piece." A wolfish grin.

"You bastard." Both arms went out as her head twisted to look around the deserted landscape, wet hair clinging to her cheeks. "It's the middle of fucking nowhere!"

"Show some thigh--someone'll stop."

She didn't move for a second, and Logan kept his eyes on hers, watching the play of emotion on her face. She didn't believe him, she didn't want to believe him, and just below it startled suspicion, that maybe she should believe him. Just like Rogue, react then think it through, and he'd had a good year and a half to think. And think. And think some more. And six hours forty-five minutes--{You're countin' numbers like they're goin' out of style.}--he'd had of uninterrupted silence and freedom and a few things were falling into place.

Hell, a lot of things.

"Xavier--"

"--will believe me when I call and tell him you disappeared. He can look for you all he likes, if he wants, but darlin', you've used up the last of your credit with me. Choose. In the fucking car and deal with me or run and don't."

There was a moment when the possibilities flashed through her eyes--he could see them reflected in clear darkness, as she took in the quiet countryside darkened from the clouds to deep grey, weighing the risks and the gains, and awkwardness was suddenly replaced by practiced nonchalance as she straightened, and he almost breathed in relief that she was following her own pattern so predictably.

"And lose a chance to spend some time alone with you, sugar?" The low drawl she used with such skill, could call up images of a little girl and grown woman at the same time. "Wouldn't dream of it." A slow smile, pure Rogue, and she slipped back inside without missing a beat, but he knew he'd thrown her, and since that was the idea, he hid his grin and stomped back around, wiping the rain from his face as he slid into the seat and turned the ignition.

"Not gonna happen, Rogue." She tossed her damp hair back, absently twisting it away from her face into a knot at the base of her neck.

"Call me Marie," she invited, and a gloved hand slid down his arm with practiced sensuality, almost perfect. She was good at what she did, he'd give her that. With a jerk of the gear shift, they were moving again, and she curled herself gracefully into the corner of the seat, wet bare feet neatly covered with her jacket. "What're you tryin' to accomplish with this little field trip, sugar? Get me fixed up so you can leave for good?" The drawl thickened just a little, and he felt an involuntary shudder run up his spine--she knew him too well. He didn't bother answering, flipping the wipers on instead.

"Seatbelt," he told her, and she laughed but complied--with slow, deliberate movements of her fingers, she pulled it on, and then turned that dark gaze on him, utterly cool, and reactionary thinking, her worst work--she knew how to hit buttons, but lacked the subtlety to make it hurt when she was on the defensive. If she wasn't on the attack, she tended to suffer the worst. That held true in any situation she was in--he'd noted it before.

"Okay, so what exactly are we doing?" she asked finally. The rain could be clearly heard as it beat down harder on the roof of the car. Logan saw the next turn approaching and leaned back a little, relaxing into the seat.

"Just a trip. Thought you'd want to get out for awhile."

"You know I'm not allowed to do that." A silky laugh. "I'm surprised Cyke didn't wanna come along." There was a little smile on her face, a distant memory that she seemed to briefly lose herself in, and Logan kept his attention on the road before him, refusing to rise to the bait she was offering. "Where we goin'?"

"We'll be stopping in Maryland in an hour or so."

"Aren't you wanted in Maryland for somethin'?" she shot, curling back in the seat, obviously looking for a way to unsettle him. Pointing out just as clearly as if she'd screamed it that she was unnerved, that she hadn't expected him to offer to leave her on the side of the road, and that she was still trying to get her confidence back.

"Only for attempted murder and it was a long time ago and we're not even gonna be in that area anyway, so don't worry 'bout it." Rogue jerked her head around to stare at him, mouth dropping open in surprise. He smirked, reaching for a cigar "You always tell me how you got those memories--do a little digging. You can't remember just the sex."

She frowned, drawing a knee to her chest, dismissing it from her mind with obvious effort, looking for another method of attack.

"Whatever you're planning, Logan, it ain't gonna work."

Logan bit off the end of his cigar and groped for the lighter, brushing against her thigh. "You'd be surprised how many people've said that to me before I killed them."

---

{:::Have a good trip, Jean. Enjoy yourself.:::}

{:::Thank you, Professor.:::}

She packed her bags and stared at the plain blanket on her bed for a long time--so long, in fact, that she was vaguely startled when there was a short knock on the door.

"Come in." Checking that her hair was secured in its careful coils, that her dress was straight--she was Dr. Jean Grey, she never looked other than immaculate. Control, it was all about that, the concentration it took, a long time ago when the voices grew too loud and she'd knelt on her bedroom floor in a far away house with a sponge and turned the entirety of her body and mind to scrubbing the wood clean.

Broken nails and raw, bleeding hands later, here, in fact, she'd turned all that concentration on herself, and she wondered suddenly if anyone had ever seen her get dirty.

Expectations again. Of course not. Dr. Jean Grey didn't get dirty.

Mental list--dresses, check, make-up, check, briefcase in the suitcase, shoes and alternate choices, casual clothes and cash, credit cards, her toothbrush, and a digital phone for emergencies. Her laptop tucked in its case inside the garment bag and a selection of meditation candles, since she'd be around unshielded humans and would need to put in the extra time regaining her mental balance. Three novels, a pack of gum, a box of chocolates, and a bottle of water for the plane ride in her carry-on.

Scott came in with impeccable good manners, and she wondered, not for the first time, if he'd actually read the entire Emily Post or simply knew all the finest points of etiquette by instinct. Scott didn't believe in instincts--that didn't mean he didn't have them.

She knew him, so that wasn't the bit that startled her--it was the realization he'd never been in this room before. Not since her occupancy, at any rate, and she straightened over her bag and watched him look around with curious eyes. Closing her eyes briefly, she opened them again and looked around, trying to see it as he did.

Her personality was stamped everywhere--her meditation candles, the comforter on her bed, the careful pillow arrangement, the spotless line of the dust ruffle a very correct inch above the floor. Then took in Scott's expression, and wondered if his bedroom was a mess, because she'd been the one to always clean it. Or maybe not--he might get one of the students to clean it when the clothes piled high enough to block the door. All that energy that went into being the Fearless Leader didn't translate well into domestic chores.

"You ready?" he asked finally, and she nodded. Without another word, he walked to the bed, picking up the suitcase and garment bag, and bemused, she followed him to the door with her carry-on over one shoulder and her purse in her hand as he politely waited for her to go out first--pure Scott, ladies first.

"You know, you don't have to go," she told him as they walked down the hall.

"I've never been to Daytona Beach." A pause. "Storm'll contact me if anything comes up. Where are we staying?"

That startled her, and she stumbled in her heels, definitely a first, and instantly, a hand was below her elbow, gently supporting, and Jean looked at him for a minute before pulling away. One touch and she wasn't holding her shields very well and she picked up more than she'd expected--hell, more than she'd wanted to even think about.

"It's not going to work, Scott."

One touch was all it took and he grinned a little, hefting the bag back up with casual ease.

"I have time." And he waited while she began to walk again, off-balance and uneasy from that smile, a smile she remembered from long ago. He'd been eighteen and they'd knelt on the floor of her room while she explored his mind with careful touches, the warm feel of his thoughts blending with hers. The first time he told her he loved her and she believed him, because even she couldn't believe that his mind could lie so well.

"Scott, whatever you're thinking of doing, nothing is going to happen."

He gave her a thoughtful look, nothing changing in his aura when she dared a look, and the confidence shook her. Scott was always confident, though, so it shouldn't surprise her. What surprised her was everything that seethed beneath.

He was ready to forgive her, and she wasn't ready for that.

"You'd be surprised how often I've heard that."

---

The diner was a cross between a truck station and a restaurant--the kind where the patrons were left utterly to their own devices. You could draw a circle on the floor and start a human sacrifice in the far corner and no one in the place would ever claim to have seen a thing. Just placidly drinking too-strong coffee and enjoy fatty eggs and bacon and wipe any splattered blood away with a convenient checkered napkin.

So it was his sort of place. Fair enough.

Rogue was curled up opposite him in the booth, looking a little less than her usual energetic self--he'd guess that her stomach was still doing cartwheels, and when the gum-snapping waitress stopped to take their orders, Rogue growled out coffee, black. Logan, still looking at the stained menu, absently asked for the same.

"You'll feel better if you eat," he told her and got a glare for his troubles. She looked pale, now in the harsh light of halogen bulbs, and he studied her for a second. "What did you take last night? Before the alcohol?"

"Nothin'," she answered sullenly, and curled her legs up against her chest. "Didn't have time between Remy an' you."

"And the mission."

"Yeah, there's that." She pulled off her glove, tapping idle rhythms on the table with long nails. "I wanna go back, Logan."

"Walk," he answered pleasantly. Another glance, and Logan finally thought, just maybe, the reality of the situation was getting through to her.

"How'd you swing Xavier into letting me leave?"

"He's not your warden, darlin'. You could have left any time you damn well pleased."

"And have you sent after me," she answered darkly, and picked up a fork, twisting it between her fingers restlessly. Logan couldn't help being a little fascinated--Rogue discomposed was so rare that he really had to get his kicks where he could. She was too used to being the manipulator.

"Maybe I wouldn't have gone."

Well, that was a lie, and a good one too, if her expression was anything to go by.

"It's not like you have anything better to do with your time, sugar," Rogue shot back, dropping the fork with a noisy clang and almost overturning her water. "It was that or fuck your way across the continent, huh? How many people have you killed, anyway?"

She was really trying, he had to give her that. Logan waited as the waitress put their coffee down and picked his up, taking a thoughtful drink.

"One hundred and eight--that I remember." Her mouth dropped and he reached out to catch her water when her wrist hit it involuntarily. "To be perfectly fair, however, about a third of that since I joined up in Chuck's mission, therefore sort of accidental." He took another drink. "You're suddenly far too interested in my life, and I can count the times on one hand that you've shown any interest in my activities in the last three years. Wanna stop tryin' to bait me and maybe enjoy the fact that you aren't in the mansion?"

"Why would I enjoy it? You kidnapped me."

"You didn't fight too hard."

She fell back into brooding silence, but he knew he'd shocked her--watching her face, he could see her trying to access his memories from the deepest parts of her mind, almost completely faded by now. Picking up her coffee cup absently, she took a drink, long bare fingers wrapped around the mug.

"Why?"

He smiled a little over the coffee.

"Because maybe I don't wanna drag you outta a lake again."

"I promised." Her voice was sulky.

"Well, baby, your promises are worth less than the breath you use to make 'em. You promised me fidelity and broke that pretty fucking quick, so don't be so surprised I don't believe it."

Her eyes came up, startled, and he could almost see the machinations in her eyes, thinking she had something to work with now.

"This is about your pride? I fuck other people and you gotta get all manly and possessive 'bout it?"

"If I was possessive, darlin', the body count you just asked for would be considerably higher. And considerin' I haven't fucked you for awhile, get all your kicks wherever the hell you wanna get them."

She growled softly, putting her coffee down on the checkered tablecloth hard enough to spill some over onto her gloves and excess pooled around the bottom.

"Look who my role model is." She cocked her head, half-dried dark hair clinging to her throat. Logan looked at her--no make-up, her hair a mess, dressed in flannel and blue jean, bad posture, smoking another cigarette, and she still managed to look classy. Which was a lot more than could be said for him, truth be told, and it didn't bother him much. He was relatively content with who he was--Rogue switched personalities and habits so much she probably didn't know Marie from a hooker.

"Nice to know." He took another drink of his coffee, glancing at the menu again. "You ready to hear the rules of this little road trip, baby?"

Her head jerked around again, cigarette almost falling from her fingers.

"Rules? You're kidding me."

"Nope."

A pause.

"You can't tell me what to do."

He glanced up at her, meeting her shocked eyes.

"Actually, I can. And I am. One--"

"You're fucking unbelievable!"

"--no sex. Got it? No picking up in bars, no running out to cruise the streets, no hittin' on unsuspecting humans. I'm not fishin' you outta any more messes, you got it?"

It was somewhat amusing to see her mouth gape open like that.

"How the hell would you know what I've been doing?"

"You sleep in my room, you get drunk, you usually end up telling me yourself, if one of your exes doesn't wander up at some point and feel free to tell me how you screwed him over. Which has happened, but not too many times." Not very often anymore--and why they hell did they do that anyway? What the fuck did they think he could do? He took another drink of coffee. "Trust me, Rogue, there's damned little I don't know about your life. Two--"

"I don't have to--" She gathered herself and Logan reached out, catching her wrist and pinning it to the table. Tears filled her eyes, hastily wiped away, and she didn't try to pull away. After a second, her arm relaxed and he let her go.

"Two--no drinking or drugs. Non-negotiable." She flicked her cigarette in defiance. "You can keep those though."

"How ya gonna enforce this?" Almost mocking, but then, she wasn't stupid--she knew he had ways.

"The old fashioned way." He grinned at her, throwing her again. "Watch you. And considerin' we're gonna be pretty far away from your usual idea of good company, it ain't gonna be that hard."

She pushed her coffee aside--empty, he noticed--and resettled her feet beneath her.

"Where we goin'?" she asked finally. "This is too planned, sugar--you been thinkin' about this."

"Just a nice little roadtrip. Everyone likes to get away."

"If you wanted to get away, sugar, you coulda gone alone, per your standard operating procedure." The waitress returned, standing patiently by the table. "Pancakes, more coffee," Rogue said sharply, tossing Logan the menu and turning away to look out the window.

"The special," Logan said, and handed the woman both menus, waiting as she patiently wrote down their order. When the cups had been filled and the woman left, Logan pushed her cup toward her. "I like company once in awhile."

"You don't like me."

"True." Her eyes closed, and he wondered if that possibly could have hurt her. "But again, I get along better with you than Cyke, so if you had a choice, who would you choose?"

That brought the slightest trace of an unwilling smile, and she turned back, picking up her coffee. Composure still ruffled, she watched him as if she didn't know what to expect, but that was fine, he was going for that anyway. With a finger, she pressed her hair back from her face and stared down at the table.

"You take requests?"

He tilted his head a little.

"I'm open to suggestions."

Absently, gloved fingers skated across the surface of the table, drawing lines in the coffee she'd spilled, before she lifted her head.

"You told me when--when I could control it, you'd take me to Anchorage." A pause. "If I gotta be on this little jaunt, I'd like to go there. Just for remembrance, ya know?"

Logan hid a smile behind his cup.

"Darlin', you read my mind."

---

"Jean?"

First class on an airplane was deathly quiet--mid-week flights almost guaranteed that there were few other passengers, and Jean liked that. Enclosed spaces with a large number of people made her more jittery than she liked to admit--leftovers from days before her shields were good enough to block out excess mental noise. Those long days in the Congress chambers had probably been less stressful in their actual content than in the fact she was the definition of trapped, and one slip meant she got information overload in terms of hate and fear. Two slips--and that little public plunge into telekinesis, damn it--had taught her that this would not be her chosen life's work if she could help it.

How unfortunate, that she was a poster-child now for the good mutant, the nice mutant, the mutant that could pass. That this would probably be her life's work. Shit.

"Jean, you okay?"

Glancing at Scott, she saw his worry. Probably remembering her long days in Congressional chambers too.

"Fine." Off the airplane, in a quiet room where she could center herself, and why the hell did he have to choose now to start rethinking his position on her infidelity? She'd needed this quiet, wanted it, just the chance to be legitimately away on business. She wasn't Logan, she couldn't take off whenever she felt like it. She had responsibilities, so when a responsibility just happened to combine with personal preference, it was a small miracle. Or maybe a big miracle--she marked her life with these little jaunts, and her last one Scott had come with her on and they'd shared a room in Memphis.

"You sure? Do you want me to get you anything?"

She'd like for him to switch seats and leave her alone. She wanted to tell him she didn't want him here, that he should have sent Bobby instead and sat around doing whatever he did with his free time these days--apparently a smoking habit, maybe he combined it with designing new vehicles. He and Logan tentatively bonded over engines regularly--she'd sometimes wondered, watching them from a window of the Mansion, if either one could ever feel comfortable again hating each other. They hadn't been able to yet--and the disturbing cordiality was probably something else that should have broken a long time ago. She figured, and knew she was accurate, that one argument would probably have led places that neither man wanted to go. Because while Logan had his vulnerable spots that Scott could hit with deadly accuracy, she also knew Logan was aware of every one of Scott's as well--and more, that Logan could and would use every one of them. All those spots were named Rogue, and the crimes would read like a litany of failure.

And Scott Summers took failure badly.

"No. I'm fine, Scott, thanks." Close your eyes, Jean. Breathe. In and out. Good. She levered her seat back, letting her book close in her lap, wishing she could take off her heels and stretch her toes a little--Italian leather or not, no heel ever created had ever been comfortable for her. Scott had asked her a long time ago why she wore them, and hadn't been surprised by the answer, though she thought other people might be.

It was all about image.

One hour into the flight and she was getting so tense that alcohol might end up being a real option.

"I think we should talk," Scott said, and her eyes snapped open.

God, she hadn't expected him to be that blunt. Reign it in, Jean. He means something else entirely. Scott Summers doesn't air his dirty laundry on a public plane.

"I thought you looked at the itinerary," she answered, her voice even. Took a lot of control to do that, to keep her voice so steady, but Scott didn't seem to notice, and he would have before. Three years made the difference between intimacy and strangers who lived in the same house.

"No, not that." A pause. "About you and I."

Dirty laundry spread evenly over a public space and he wanted it all aired. This wasn't Scott-like at all--Logan must have had an effect on him. No--if anyone was more private that Scott, Logan would be it.

"This isn't a good time."

"It may be one of the few times you won't be able to find something else to do. You don't have to say anything, just sit back and listen to me."

He made it sound simple, as if this was something she could watch on television that had no effect on her life other than short-term entertainment. Or as if she herself had no real choice--he'd made a decision and she was supposed to let him. Their relationship had had a lot of that, Scott Summers-specific autocracy, and that part of Fearless Leadership had translated very well into domestic life. Not that he ever thought of it that way--he was just Scott, who really did always know best.

And damn, he was usually right.

Something in her moved this time, though--not resentment, because she knew him too well, knew that he was rarely malicious. It was hard to hate someone for being true to their character. She'd tried that once and it hadn't worked out too well.

"Jean?"

"Scott--" but what the hell was she supposed to say? Don't talk to me, Scott, because whatever was between us is over for good. No. She'd never be able to say that and be truthful. I love you Scott, but I don't trust you anymore, and you don't trust me, so let's not even try. She couldn't burn bridges like that. She'd never been able to.

I don't want you anymore. She could say that, but she couldn't be sure if that was a truth that would remain the truth for very long. She'd never really learned how to let go.

"When--when we get to Daytona, we'll talk," she said finally, and turned her head. "You name the time, I'll be there. Just wait until then. Just--just until then."

She need time, to build up something that could fight him, some logical reason that this wouldn't work, that whatever was in his head wasn't going to happen, period.

A pause.

"All right."

And things had changed--Scott had backed down. Mostly. And for some reason, that scared her. He might not just be ready to forgive and forget, and might not just want to begin again in hopes of rebuilding their relationship from the ground up by burning away all the foundation of the original, like normal, logical people did. Which she couldn't even say wouldn't happen, given time, given space, given patience, given effort.

There was a truly frightening chance that Scott Summers wanted to start exactly where they left off, and her left third finger began to burn with the memory of that ring.

Scott never did anything halfway. She should have remembered that before getting on this plane.

---

"When are we stopping?"

"Not until we get into Alberta," he told her. Rogue was quiet, her jacket pulled securely to her shoulders, staring quietly at the changing landscapes. Which vaguely surprised him. Shouldn't have, but it did.

"How far are we from Laughlin?" she asked, and he turned to look at her, but there was nothing written on her face but simple curiosity. Nothing he could read, anyway.

"We'd have to go farther north. I wasn't planning on that originally."

"Okay." Quiet for a moment. "When you were gone that first year, me and a few of the kids got together and drove into Niagara Falls. Scooter threw a fit, of course--Professor had to get in Cerebro and send the grown-ups after us, and we were all sitting on the rocks watching the water. Ororo came to get us, like runaways or something, like we'd done something wrong. And I understood her fear--who we were and all that, and how dangerous it was for us to be wandering around until we could control our powers better. But--it felt good, to pull a stupid prank like that and make a run for it. Just to act like kids and not secret weapons."

"What did you do before Ororo got up there?"

Rogue grinned a little, curling herself in her seat.

"Bobby froze water vapor and made little ice roses for me and Kitty. Jubes set off fireworks. Johnny and the others took turns playing chicken--we had a kid who was a low-level kinetic, so we weren't afraid of falling. Or maybe we just didn't care--we were all eighteen and we just wanted to act like it, you know? Pull stupid shit like that. We got a long lecture from Xavier and Scooter before we were grounded, to remind us that we were future X-men and we had responsibilities, that we couldn't just take off whenever we felt like it." A smile turned up her mouth. "Unless we were Logan, of course, who got to be an independent agent and play between episodes of saving the known world." Her gaze slid to him for a moment, thoughtful. "If you'd been with us, they would have let us stay."

"If I'd been with you, I'd have kicked your asses for choosing such a fucking boring spot for a field trip."

Rogue smiled suddenly, a real smile.

"Yeah, that's what I told them too. But none of us were legal enough to get into some low-class Ontario bars for a good fight. Trust me, we did try." She straightened, jacket falling into her lap. "I wanted to see the world, before, you know? I didn't think it was too much to ask that I get to see a waterfall once in awhile. Afterward, I went a lot, but alone. Everyone would cover for me, and I sat up there and thought about running again. But not letting myself be caught."

"You weren't exactly in great shape when I found you, kid."

"Yeah." She mulled that. "I like eating regularly. Bad habit, I guess."

Absently, she began to pull off her gloves, and Logan watched her stretch her fingers idly, looking at her nails. "Why do you even bother staying around anyway? Is it that much fun, to have Scooter baiting you about Jeanie and me?"

He knew he stiffened--he'd gotten too comfortable with her, always a mistake, but before he could answer, he glanced at her face. There was nothing there except honest curiosity, the real thing.

"It never occurred to you I wanted to?"

"No. It never did." She looked away again, and he wanted to see her eyes, see what was in them. "It never--" Her hand clenched in her lap and he watched her bite her lip briefly before a tilt of her head curtained her face with a length of her hair. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Yeah, well, that makes two of us. But you know, the drive is long and boring."

Her head came up.

"You've never cared before."

"Some things change, Marie. You really don't know me that well at all."